wait, they don't love you like I love you
by Cinderela-Story
Summary: You will Chuck not to change even as you feel the people you both were slipping away.


Title: maps (wait, they don't love you like I love you)  
Summary: _You will Chuck not to change even as you feel the people you both were slipping away._  
Character/Pairing: Sarah Walker, Chuck/Sarah  
Rating: PG  
Disclaimer: Sadly, they still don't belong to me.  
Note: A look into Sarah's psyche (again!) before and throughout the series. Mentions of Bryce (and spoilers for the Season Two finale and all of Season Three). I've been tweaking this for far too long and I'm still not completely content, to be quite honest. Apologies in advance if it's not up to snuff. Feedback is always appreciated, it feeds my hungry muse. ;)

* * *

_My kind's your kind_

_I'll stay the same_

* * *

You stand before the world map in Director Graham's office. You're a new recruit but he thinks you have "much to offer the CIA" and even now, the thought of his words, of being _good _at something, secretly pleases you. You look at the map, finger each of the tiny colored pushpins representing hundreds of agents spread throughout the globe. You think of all the places you've never been, never seen, and smile, smoothing a hand over the end of your shiny ponytail.

"What are you thinking?" a voice calls from the doorway. Graham.

"I'm thinking ..." you say, your voice loud in the quiet of his office. "I'm thinking it might be nice to be a part of something real for once. I think I might like blending in for awhile. No more running. Just a dot on the map, right?"

"Something like that," he says, handing you a pushpin. You eye the pin; feel the weight of it in your palm.

"Go on," he says, and when you look up, he's smiling. You push the pin onto the map, feeling the wall beneath give way until you can't push any farther.

"Welcome to the CIA, Sarah Walker."

Your answering smile is bright.

* * *

It isn't until Bryce is dead and buried that you realize how much of yourself was wrapped up in him.

He'd been so many people over the years - Mister Anderson, Chuck's most hated person ever, _not an accountant_ - you'd almost forgotten he was also your friend. Your best friend.

You remember lying in bed beside him some nights, connecting the freckles on his back over and over until he'd roll over. Something about those patterns, your routine, had made you feel less lost; you'd always have Bryce. Or so you'd thought.

Chuck sits across from you at the Weinerlicious and it takes all of your effort to not entwine your fingers, smooth the hair back from his forehead. Instead you think of Bryce's back - the freckles there rotting beneath mud and dirt and earth until one day, it will be as if they never existed at all.

You wonder where he is now, if he's lost out there in the abyss or if he's finally at peace, found. The thought makes you feel microscopic and hopeful all at once.

* * *

And then suddenly, Chuck's a spy and Casey's not and your whole life seems to be in flux.

You will Chuck not to change even as you feel the people you both were slipping away. You know it's unfair of you to force him to remain within these rigid lines you've drawn but you simply can't find words to explain what it feels like to take someone's life, as if your stomach has been hollowed and filled with cold asphalt.

Before him, you'd been surrounded only by people damaged beyond repair - no lingering warmth or trace of innocence to be found. Then Chuck appeared - all goodness and light - stealing your breath, your _heart_, before you were aware he was capable of either.

You can't help but blame yourself for robbing him of something so precious, so rare, even as he tells you nothing's changed.

"I can't," you tell him one day, standing firm despite the heaviness in your chest. He comes closer and you sift through piles of paperwork in an effort to avoid his eyes.

"I'm still your –" he takes a deep breath as if gathering his courage. "I'm still your Chuck, Sarah," he whispers before leaving the room, the weight of his words leaving you breathless.

Your heart gives a funny leap when you realize you're smiling.

* * *

A week later, he's sitting before you, a plastic guitar strapped to his chest and the stale smell of whiskey on his breath.

"Sarah, do you love me?" he whispers, looking more vulnerable, more innocent, than you've ever quite seen.

You take a steadying breath before responding, and his whole face seems to break into a grin at your admission, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Yes, yes, yes," you whisper, kissing him gently before resting your forehead against his face.

You think of the map in Graham's office, of Chuck's hands on your face anchoring you, and smile.

You're not lost in the abyss. _You are here_.


End file.
